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Masthead LogoBrigham Young University
BYU ScholarsArchive
Undergraduate Honors Theses
2019-03-27
“THE RIGHT USE OF REASON”: FAIRYTALES, FANTASY, AND MORALEDUCATION IN PETER PARLEY’S ANNUALTaylor TophamBrigham Young University
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BYU ScholarsArchive CitationTopham, Taylor, "“THE RIGHT USE OF REASON”: FAIRY TALES, FANTASY, AND MORAL EDUCATION IN PETERPARLEY’S ANNUAL" (2019). Undergraduate Honors Theses. 55.https://scholarsarchive.byu.edu/studentpub_uht/55
Honors Thesis
“THE RIGHT USE OF REASON”: FAIRY TALES, FANTASY,
AND MORAL EDUCATION IN PETER PARLEY’S ANNUAL
by
Taylor Topham
Submitted to Brigham Young University in partial fulfillment
of graduation requirements for University Honors
English Department
Brigham Young University
April 2019
Advisor: Leslee Thorne-Murphy
Honors Coordinator: John Talbot
ABSTRACT
“THE RIGHT USE OF REASON”: FAIRY TALES, FANTASY,
AND MORAL EDUCATION IN PETER PARLEY’S ANNUAL
Taylor Topham
English Department
Bachelor of Arts
This thesis discusses the relationship between the start of the Golden Age of
Children’s Literature and the educational policy and philosophy changes that took place
in mid- to late-19th century England. Some scholars have argued that the reasons for the
rise in fantasy literature that characterized the Golden Age of Children’s Literature are
primarily economic, while others find philosophical and cultural precedents for the
movement toward fantasy. This paper presents the work of William Martin as an example
of how fantasy literature emerged. Martin’s work reveals that he was proactively
experimenting with the fantasy genre in response to debates about education policy and
philosophy that surrounded the creation of the first public education system in England.
To show this, it compares Martin’s writings with Charles Kingsley’s The Water-Babies, a
work that connects fantasy with moral development. The comparison reveals that both
Martin and Kingsley worked to reconcile fantasy literature with rationalism, the
advancement of science, and pedagogical theories. Ultimately, it argues that Martin’s
work offers insights into the roots of the Golden Age of Children’s Literature because his
work contributes to both the educational and literary conversations of the time.
iii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . i
Abstract. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .ii
Table of Contents. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .iii
I. Introduction. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .1
II. William Martin and Peter Parley’s Annual. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .4
III. The Philosophy of Moral Education and the 1862 Revised Code. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
IV. Martin and Moral Education. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .11
V. Martin and Charles Kingsley . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15
VI. Moral Education Through Fantasy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .21
VII. The Limitations of Fantasy and Rationalism. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
VIII. Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29
Works Cited. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
1
Introduction
What has been considered the Golden Age of Children’s Literature began in
England in the late 19th century with the growth in popularity of fantasy as a major genre
of children’s stories. For centuries, there had been debates between philosophers, writers,
and others about the relative value of literature—especially imaginative literature—for
children. The modern antecedents of the debate began with John Locke and Jean-Jacques
Rousseau. Though they disagreed about why, both Locke and Rousseau questioned the
role of imaginative literature in children’s lives and education (Locke 191, Lewis 323). A
generation of writers and censors took that questioning to the extreme, producing a set of
works that tried to remove, or at least water down, fantastic elements in stories (Levy and
Mendlesohn 23-24). By the late 18th century, however, prominent Romantic thinkers and
writers began to question this practice, reviving interest in traditional folk tales and
fantastic stories (Richardson 114, Levy and Mendlesohn 24-26). Interestingly, these
Romantics also pulled ideas from earlier philosophers—especially Rousseau. Both Locke
and Rousseau had left room for plenty of imaginative literature, though disagreeing about
many things. (For example, Locke believed Aesop’s Fables to be helpful educational
tools, Rousseau found them merely to be confusing for children and allowed for plenty of
reading for older children). A new group of censors responded to the renewed interest in
these tales and produced versions intended especially for families and children by
removing any elements that might be considered questionable (Levy and Mendlesohn 21-
24). This produced a response from writers in the mid-19th century, most famously
Charles Dickens’ essay “Frauds on the Fairies.” As the debate continued and the
pendulum continued to swing, writers and thinkers began to look for ways to merge these
2
divergent ideas of what kinds of literature were best for children. Later that same century,
the Golden Age of Children’s Literature began, producing such classics as Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland, The Jungle Book, and The Princess and the Goblin.
At the exact same time as this literary movement was getting off the ground,
England created its first public, standardized, compulsory education system through a
series of policy changes that culminated in the Education Act of 1870. Many of these
policy changes, especially the 1862 Revised Code of Education, prompted significant
debates among educators, intellectuals, and policy makers about the role of
standardization and imagination in childhood development and education, especially
moral education. Thinkers such as Matthew Arnold, James Kay-Shuttleworth, and
Herbert Spencer came to diverse conclusions about how education could best serve the
needs of children and society. These debates would inform the development of the new
school system as it attempted to standardize curriculum and negotiate the values of
various areas of study.
Many scholars have argued that the rise of the education system and the
movement towards fantasy literature are connected. That there is some connection is
somewhat obvious, since Locke and Rousseau’s original contributions to the literary
debate both focused mainly on education. Scholars, however, disagree about how these
two movements influenced one another. J. S. Bratton, for example, argues that the rise in
fantasy and adventure fiction was mainly a result of a rapid increase in non-religious
publishers of children’s literature. This increase, he further argues, was caused by rising
literacy rates among children due to greater educational opportunities afforded by the
1870 Act and changes leading up to it (Bratton, 191-193). Levy and Mendlesohn follow a
3
similar line of reasoning, arguing that “many of the new magazines...found in the older
fairy tales—and in the new tales hastily written to well-understood formulae—copy to fill
their pages” (Levy and Mendlesohn 29). Others, such as Jack Zipes, claim that the
movement toward fantasy was less economically based, but perhaps based on shifting
attitudes toward childhood and education. He writes that authors “began to experiment
with the fairy tale in a manner that would make young readers question the world around
them” (“Fairy Tales and Folk Tales” 5). Seth Lerer builds on Gillian Beer’s approach to
Darwin’s effects on literature and argues that Darwin’s theories influenced the rise in
fantasy by evoking a sense of scientific wonder at the world (Lerer 172-179). Recently,
Jessica Straley has convincingly argued that this rise in fantasy literature is, in part, a
response to a perceived over-emphasis on science in school curriculum and a subsequent
devaluation of literature due to changes in ideas of childhood development that revolved
around Herbert Spencer’s conception of Darwin’s theories (Straley 9).
These various explanations for the connections between the educational and
literary trends each identify theories of what caused the growth of fantasy literature. The
purpose of this paper is to present the work of William Martin, a writer of children’s
fiction, as an example of how fantasy literature emerged from the philosophical debates
that descended from Locke and Rousseau and shaped the English education system. Both
Bratton and Levy and Mendlesohn argue that fantasy literature first got a foothold in
periodicals because the increase of demand created more pages to fill. However, Martin’s
periodical fantasy stories and non-fiction writings about fantasy reveal that he was
engaging in debates about the value of fantasy for moral education. Indeed, much of his
writing is influenced by the different strains of educational thought that were prevalent in
4
his time. This reveals that Martin, one of the periodical writers on the front end of the
Golden Age of Children’s Literature, was not just trying to fill pages, but was proactively
experimenting with fantasy as a form of moral education. To show this, I compare
Martin’s work with Charles Kingsley’s The Water-Babies, which both Lerer and Straley
consider a major early fantasy work that connects fantasy with moral development. The
comparison reveals that both Martin and Kingsley struggled to reconcile romantic views
of literature and fantasy with rationalism, the advancement of science, and pedagogical
theories. Ultimately, including Martin in this conversation reveals that the emergence of
fantasy is not just a reaction against an overemphasis on science, as Straley posits, but it
also emerged organically from the educational philosophies of Locke and Rousseau as
they descended through the Romantics.
I first look at William Martin and education policy, tracing some of Martin’s
background and work as well as some of the educational debates surrounding the 1862
Revised Code of Education, and pointing out how specific pieces of Martin’s writing
speak to the issues surrounding the Revised Code. I then compare the work of Martin and
Charles Kingsley, revealing how Kingsley attempted to reconcile ideas of rational and
scientific education in his story The Water-Babies, and discussing areas of agreement and
disagreement between him and Martin. Finally, I turn to Martin’s views on achieving
moral education through fantasy, describing what he sees as the limits of fantasy and
realism and his own attempts to make them work together to the end of moral
development.
William Martin and Peter Parley’s Annual
Peter Parley’s Annual, a periodical for children published around Christmas each
5
year, provides a perfect example of how children’s fiction developed throughout this
period. It ran annually from 1840 to 1892, and the content it contained changed
dramatically over that time. The 1861 issue (published around Christmas of 1860) is a
perfect example of how children’s periodical fiction began to experiment with fantasy.
Containing essays attacking imagination and fairy tales and a fantasy tale rewritten
without fantastic elements, alongside two fantasy stories, detailed descriptions of magical
creatures and fairy tales, plus a host of educational material and an essay critiquing the
state of the education system, this issue of Peter Parley’s Annual is a complex example
of the difficult, conflicting philosophies of literature and education that would produce
the modern genre of children’s fantasy. Martin’s writing in the 1861 issue of Peter
Parley’s Annual reveals how authors were proactively experimenting with the fantasy
genre, rather than just relying on it to fill the empty pages created by the emerging market
of children’s fiction.
Peter Parley’s Annual was a popular children’s periodical in mid- and late-
century Victorian England. It was written each year by William Martin from 1840 until
Martin’s death in 1867. After his death, the periodical continued, but was a compilation
of many different writers’ work, rather than solely Martin’s (Kinnell 2). The name of
Peter Parley had already been popularized in American periodicals by Samuel Goodrich
before Martin took up the pseudonym. Several other writers in England also adopted the
name, making it difficult to trace authorship in some cases, but the Annuals are certainly
Martin’s production (at least until 1867). Martin produced a complex and diverse set of
works in his lifetime and was often concerned with educational themes. For example, one
of his early works, entitled The Early Educator, or, The Young Enquirer Answered,
6
teaches basic facts about everything from catching fish to English law in a catechistic,
question and answer format. As Martin neared the end of his life, his works grew more
overtly moralistic, and his concern for education morphed into a concern for moral
development in the young. Interestingly, as this shift happened, some “dissipated habits
and loose morals” entered Martin’s own life, “giving his friends some anxiety” (Kinnell
3). Peter Parley’s Annual easily contains more educational material than stories and had
certainly grown more moralistic by 1861. Of the 48 items included in the 1861 issue, nine
can fully be considered stories. Three more are poems (often with an educational bent to
them), and the rest are historical sketches of England, explanations of how to care for
different kinds of animals, or didactic essays on one subject or another.
Among all the items in the 1861 issue, a few stand out for the statement they
make on what Martin saw as the function of fantasy in society. These are: “King Arthur,”
a story that claims to be “an authentic account of his life, death, burial, and resuscitation,”
which drops all fantastic elements from the story of King Arthur, and aims to help young
people “not be led astray by fable and romance”; “Distributing the Prizes at a Village
School,” an essay about the woes of the education system in England; and “Curious and
Funny Things,” a work that is divided into four sections: the first two are an essay
condemning imagination in society (particularly in the form of fairy tales), while,
ironically, the last two sections narrate an impressively imaginative fairy tale.
The Philosophy of Moral Education and the 1862 Revised Code
Throughout these three pieces, Martin wrestles—usually subtly, though in one
case overtly—with many of the complex educational issues that arose in the latter half of
the 19th century as England moved toward a free, compulsory, and standardized public
7
education system. The 1870 education act was “a watershed in the provision of universal
instruction,” but many of the debates that produced this act were fought in the decades
leading up to it and the decades after it (Boos 1). The Revised Code of Education, passed
by the Committee of Council on Education in 1862, mainly through the efforts of Robert
Lowe, was a controversial precursor to the 1870 act. First released in July of 1861, but
not fully implemented until 1863, the Revised Code made “the payment of grants to
schools by the central authority dependent upon a combination of inspection and
individual examination of pupils in reading, writing, and arithmetic, instead of relying
upon an inspector’s report on the conduct of the school in general” (Connell 208-209).
This change was intended to reduce the cost to the government of the education system as
a whole and remedy some of the inefficiencies and partialities in the system. It provoked
a firestorm of criticism and outrage, “and letters, pamphlets, and resolutions were rained
upon the heads of all members of parliament” (Connell 210). Two of the most well-
known critics were Sir James Kay-Shuttleworth, who had overseen the creation of the
education code that was being revised, and Matthew Arnold, a poet and school inspector.
These two educational thinkers took exception to the reductive nature of the tests
to be given by school inspectors. Arnold argued that whereas public education had been
aiming “for discipline, for civilisation, for religious and moral training, for a superior
instruction to clever and forward children,” it now aimed only “to obtain the greatest
possible quantity of reading, writing, and arithmetic for the greatest number” (qtd. in
Connell 212). As Dinah Birch points out, “Arnold is at his most engaging in his steadfast
claims that education must satisfy both intellectual and imaginative needs” (Birch 28). By
this, Arnold meant that education must be aimed at cultivating responsible citizens
8
through teaching them touchstones of classic literature. This aligned with Kay-
Shuttleworth’s view, who argued that the Revised Code was one of a series of “errors in
the applications of doctrines of pure economy to questions in which moral elements
greatly predominate” (Kay-Shuttleworth 173). This specific policy debate was rooted in a
much broader philosophical disagreement about where true education, specifically moral
education, comes from.
The philosophy represented by Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth held that the
fundamental goal of education was moral in a quasi-religious sense of the word. Giving
students a moral base that aligned with contemporary social values was the first and most
important thing that should be done. They believed that a truly moral education could
only be achieved through a broad curriculum that contained at least as much emphasis on
literature, languages, and art as it did on scientific discoveries and methods. In this way,
Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth’s moral education teaches overarching moral concepts on
which students should rely when making decisions and living their lives. The roots of this
idea can be found among the writings of the earlier romantics. Samuel Taylor Coleridge,
in a letter to Thomas Poole, wrote, “from my early reading of fairy tales...my mind had
been habituated to the Vast...I know of no other way of giving the mind a love of the
Great and the Whole. Those who have been led to the same truths step by step, through
the constant testimony of their senses, seem to me to want a sense which I possess. They
contemplate nothing but parts, and all parts are necessarily little” (Coleridge 16).
Coleridge’s idea of the Vast corresponds with this idea of overarching moral concepts.
The vastness of these concepts supersedes the “parts” which Coleridge claims people
discover through experience. This idea, which I will call the romantic philosophy of
9
education, had hardened into a dogma about the moralizing power of literature and the
arts for some of the Victorians. For example, Arnold consistently held that “the
imaginative needs of a faltering generation could be addressed through the literature of
the past,” making education a method of preserving the values and works of the past
(Birch 26). A problem with this philosophy is it easily falls into elitism. Kay-
Shuttleworth admitted that in his mind, the uneducated were, in a sense, “rescued, not by
their own act, but by that of the State and the upper classes” (Kay-Shuttleworth 174).
Not everyone believed that perpetuating Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth’s values-
based morality was the most important goal of education. Many believed almost the
opposite: that a constant testimony of the senses was the only way to truly gain any kind
of education, including a moral education. I will call this the rational philosophy of
education. A major modern starting point for this concept came from some ideas
expressed in John Locke’s Some Thoughts Concerning Education, even though the
rational education Locke sets forth there is not experiential in the modern sense. In his
treatise, Locke suggests that children should learn to be careful with fire by touching it
and being burnt, an idea oft-quoted by advocates of experiential learning (Locke 115).
Many thinkers expanded on this concept, with Augustus De Morgan, for example,
arguing that “all human knowledge...is based upon experiment” (qtd. in Straley 63).
However, this argument reached its zenith in Herbert Spencer. In 1860, he published a
compilation of essays arguing that the most worthwhile subject that could be taught in
school (specifically in elementary schools) was the scientific method because it would
provide greater daily utility to a greater proportion of the population than what was
currently being taught (Spencer 44). Not only does he argue this, but he also claims that
10
the entire foundation of the classical education Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth championed
is of relatively little worth (21-26). The argument that most contradicted the romantic
philosophy, however, was this: “Not only, however, for intellectual discipline is science
the best; but also for moral discipline” (88). The romantics and the rationalists differ not
just in the means (experiential learning vs. conceptual learning) but in the ends of moral
education. Spencer’s moral discipline is fundamentally different from the morality
envisioned by Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth. Spencer’s moral discipline is individually-
based, since it relies on the experiences of the learner. It does not imply that there are a
specific set of socially developed principles that people should adhere to. Instead, he
argues that individuals should discover the laws of nature for themselves and will adhere
to them precisely because nature requires it, not because they are socially-supported
ethical principles.
Lawmakers ultimately believed Spencer over Arnold and Kay-Shuttleworth,
despite the fact that Spencer believed government intervention in school was detrimental
(Straley 63). In creating the Revised Code of education, politicians argued that the system
set up by Kay-Shuttleworth was wasting resources on outcomes that could not accurately
be measured and that it was partial to certain kinds of students (Connell 204-206).
Instead, the utilitarians in the government posited, education should focus on measurable
outcomes and have a more scientific basis. Measurement can eliminate waste.
Standardizing tests can reduce partiality. Focusing on science will better prepare students
for working class jobs. Thus, education can achieve the greatest results for the greatest
number of students, fulfilling the utilitarian dream of efficiency.
Even though lawmakers saw in Spencer’s ideas a way to maximize educational
11
efficiency and extend educational opportunity to those who did not already have access to
it, Spencer’s ideas themselves were just as elitist as Arnold’s and Kay-Shuttleworth’s.
His conception of society was eventually named Social Darwinism, and taught that the
most evolutionarily fit ruled society and therefore rightfully deserved access to more
resources than those of more limited abilities. Spencer admits that his ideas of education
would benefit the working class, but that his primary aim is to help the elite (Spencer 52-
53).
Martin and Moral Education
William Martin clearly disagreed with the utilitarian lawmakers. In his essay in
the 1861 issue of Peter Parley’s Annual entitled “Distributing the Prizes at a Village
School,” he sets out his own philosophy of education carefully. While he is careful to tell
parents to “take care that your children are taught to read well, that they are enabled to
write a good hand, and that they are well acquainted with the fundamental rules of
arithmetic,” he goes on to argue that the most important thing lacking in the school
system is the old kind of school mistress “and her ‘moral influence,’” and claims that, as
opposed to the prizes given at schools for good marks on exams, “the true prizes of our
hearts are to have acquired truth and loving kindness, contentment, honour and honesty,
humility, and above all, christian charity” (“Distributing the Prizes” 86-87). This
emphasis on virtues instead of reason makes clear his stance on romanticism and
rationalism.
A key way that Martin hopes to counteract the lack of moral education in the
school system is by attempting to repurpose the genre of the fairy tale. In the 1861 issue
of Peter Parley’s Annual, he produces several works that explore different ways to merge
12
romantic imagination with moralist aims. His essay entitled “Curious Things” begins by
claiming to teach “the right use of Reason” (37). The essay goes on to be incredibly self-
contradictory, in one breath condemning imagination and in the other explaining the
details of various kinds of magical creatures and telling fairy tales. For example, Martin
writes at one moment that “the more imaginative and less matter of fact a nation happens
to be, the more superstition, bigotry, and intolerance—the three great curses of the human
race—in every age and nation” and at the next that “it will not be doing the rising
generation any bad service for me to give a few illustrations” of these imaginative fairy
tales (42-43, 41). It would be easy to brush these contradictions aside, reading the essay
as meaningless chatter or as a somewhat-clever satire of either imaginative literature or
rationalism. But, there is something deeper going on here. Martin makes a key distinction
between what he calls “nursery tales” and “superstition” (41, 42). Martin paints these
nursery tales as harmless entertainment “many of [which] are too good and pretty to be
forgotten” (41).
Superstition, however, is totally different. For Martin, superstition is imagination
run amok, becoming a force for evil in society, creating “bigotry and intolerance” (43).
Interestingly, Martin does not note how imagination can be used for good in society; he
here only describes it as either neutral or bad. This is because he is trying to introduce
what he sees as a new kind of imaginative story, one that will definitely be an influence
for good in society.
Of course, this idea was hardly new. John Locke, in his treatise Some Thoughts
Concerning Education, wrote, “I think it inconvenient that [children’s] yet tender minds
should receive early impressions of goblins, spectres, and apparitions, wherewith their
13
maids and those about them are apt to fright them into a compliance with their orders”
(Locke 191). What Locke and Martin thus endorse is a highly rationalist idea. Based on
Locke’s argument, plus religious critiques of imaginative literature, an entire culture had
developed around sanitizing, editing, and rationalizing fairy tales for children by the late
18th century (Richardson 113-114). Richardson further points out that the Romantics
revived some interest in common fairy tales, despite the rationalist and religious
objections to them (113). At the same time, he argues that, “the stock opposition of
fantasy and reason, imaginative and didactic literature should itself be called into
question” (115). This is exactly what Martin does with his essays and fairy tales in Peter
Parley’s Annual. By presenting an anti-imaginative argument in an introduction to a fairy
tale, Martin sets up an opportunity to create a new kind of rational fairy tale where “it is
not always clear where the moral tale leaves off and the fantasy begins” (Richardson
114).
Martin’s major fantasy story in the 1861 edition of Peter Parley’s Annual is a
two-part narrative that follows the adventures of Edilswag, a boy from Norway who is
the seventh son of his father, who was also the seventh son of his parents. This status as a
double-seventh son means that Edilswag—though he does not know it—is able to give
the evil goblins power over the industrious dwarfs. One day while Edilswag and his
father are out chopping wood, the goblin queen, Yellow Eye, appears in disguise and
promises Edilswag money if he follows her. Edilswag does not think this is a good idea,
but his father uses rational arguments to convince him that obtaining the money will be
worth it. Edilswag follows Yellow Eye, and she gives him a sword and promises to give
him money if he uses it to kill two children who appear from nowhere. Edilswag is
14
tempted, but refuses. Yellow Eye summons a lion, which Edilswag quickly decapitates
with the sword. A dragon then appears and threatens him. Edilswag befriends the dragon
by offering him a cigar. The two smoke together for a while, and the dragon tells
Edilswag that he was once a young boy just like Edilswag, but that he fell for Yellow
Eye’s temptations. As soon as he tried to kill anyone, however, he was transformed into a
dragon. Just as the dragon finishes relating this story, Smalldody, the king of the dwarfs,
appears and invites Edilswag and the dragon into his kingdom. They enter and are
astonished at the wealth on display there. Smalldody and the dwarfs decide to show
Edilswag “the true value of riches, and the real use of gold” (“The Old Dragon’s Story”
226). Edilswag is assigned to Merlin, one of the king’s councillors, to learn about wealth.
Merlin shows Edilswag immense amounts of gold, and Edilswag comments on how
happy he and his family would be with just a little of it. Merlin tells Edilswag that he is
wrong, and shows him several different individuals who lusted after money and how
miserable they are. In response to this, Edilswag cries to God to help him overcome his
lust for riches. At that moment, Edilswag awakes out in the woods, as if from a dream.
He goes about the rest of his life, having little money, but enjoying “domestic happiness,
and a clear conscience, and the blessing of God [giving] him...perpetual peace” (“The
Old Dragon’s Story” 236).
This story is clearly concerned with teaching moral principles, and represents a
major attempt by Martin to use fantasy stories to that end. Martin was definitely not the
first to try his hand at turning fairy tales and fantasy literature into tools of moral
development. Aesop’s Fables is perhaps the earliest recorded example. However, Martin
is here attempting to deal with debates about moral education which had arisen from
15
different understandings of what role literature should play. Many writers around the
same time were dealing with these same issues. Charles Dickens famously criticized
anyone who “alters [fairy tales] to suit his own opinions” (“Frauds on the Fairies” 2). He
further argued that, “to preserve [fairy tales] in their usefulness, they must be as much
preserved in their simplicity, and purity, and innocent extravagance, as if they were actual
fact” (“Frauds on the Fairies” 2). Despite the doubts of purists such as Dickens, many
began to play around with the conventions of the fairy tale genre, exploring new
techniques and reinventing old stories. Martin, in his experiments, aligns more with
Arnold than with Spencer, but is ultimately more completely Lockean than either of
them. He finds reason to be incredibly important for children, and questions the value of
some imaginative tales for children, but also believes there are many kinds of imaginative
children’s literature that are beneficial. Indeed, in some ways, Martin seems intent on
solving the debate by dealing with the disagreements in its sources: Locke and Rousseau.
The incredibly explicit moral of his fairy tale about Edilswag may be addressing one of
the concerns Rousseau had about Aesop’s Fables, namely that the moral lesson of the
story is not obvious to children and will therefore not have the expected impact on a
child’s development. Resolving these disagreements seems to be Martin’s primary aim as
various pedagogical influences formed the English education system. Exploring Martin’s
contribution to the educational conversation reveals how his writing was influenced by
the educational thoughts and theories of the time. But he was not the only writer who was
influenced by these ideas, and understanding how one of the more prominent fantasy
writers tried to reconcile these philosophies will help clarify Martin’s positions.
Martin and Charles Kingsley
16
Jessica Straley has traced how Spencer’s pedagogical views influenced many
writers in the Golden Age of Children’s literature. One of the foremost of those was
Charles Kingsley. Kingsley felt that recent scientific discoveries proved that what was
once thought fantasy could be real, and in his fiction created a strange merger between
fantasy and scientific reason (Lerer 175-179). In Kingsley’s oft-noted work, The Water-
Babies, he establishes this mode of science-supported fantasy. When the protagonist Tom
is transformed by fairies into a water-baby, the narrator of the story and an imagined
child among the readership engage in a discussion about whether or not this
transformation is possible. “‘But a water-baby is contrary to nature,’” the child says
(Kingsley 66). In response, the narrator launches into a long-winded discussion about the
fantastic things that can be found in nature, arguing, “You must not talk about ‘ain’t’ and
‘can’t’ when you speak of this great wonderful world round you, of which the wisest man
knows only the very smallest corner...wise men are afraid to say that there is anything
contrary to nature…the wiser men are, the less they talk about ‘cannot’” (66-67).
Interestingly, Kingsley specifically indicts children’s periodical fiction for spreading this
false view of nature, the narrator claiming “it is only children who read Aunt Agitate’s
Arguments, or Cousin Cramchild’s Conversations...who talk about ‘cannot exist,’ and
‘contrary to nature’” (67). These periodical titles are invented, but only just, with popular
titles following the same naming conventions, such as Aunt Judy’s Magazine and Peter
Parley’s Annual. The Water-Babies was published as a novel in 1863, though it was
serialized throughout 1862 and 1863, just after the issue of Peter Parley’s Annual
discussed here. Kingsley likely had Martin and similar writers on his mind in these
comments. Through this criticism, Kingsley reveals his belief that writers like Martin do
17
children an imaginative disservice because they specifically confine fantasy to other
worlds (Martin’s main fantasy story occurs within a dream). This disservice lies in
implying that children should not imagine anything new in the world, by limiting fantasy
to a dream or another world. Kingsley implicitly argues that limiting fantasy in this way
teaches children that the world cannot hold anything they might consider fantastic,
discouraging them from exploring the world and trying to make discoveries on their own.
This kind of discouragement would lead to educational failure by Kingsley and Spencer’s
standards. Probably to Kingsley’s dismay, the fantasy movement that gained steam
throughout the next few decades more often than not confined fantasy to other worlds
(Levy and Mendlesohn 32).
Spencer’s influence on Kingsley is clear in much of Kingsley’s writing. However,
Kingsley is trying to do more than just write an allegory for Spencer’s educational
theories. Kingsley is trying to reconcile divergent strains of educational thought by
making them fit Spencer’s paradigms. And yet, that reconciliation is paradoxical at best.
These paradoxes manifest themselves in contradictions in his advice to his readers.
Despite implying that science is vindicating fantasy and imagination run wild, Kingsley
ends The Water-Babies with this admonition: “Remember always, as I told you at first,
that this is all a fairy-tale, and only fun in pretense; and, therefore, you are not to believe
a word of it, even if it is true” (306). This reveals that Kingsley is still worried that
children will take his imaginative tale at face value instead of simply enjoying the
fantastic elements and extracting the moral lessons from it, which is a very Lockean
(though not necessarily Spencerian) idea. What Kingsley means in telling his readers “not
to believe” his story, “even if it is true” is that the truthfulness of it is conveyed in the
18
moral lessons it teaches, such as Tom’s development, not in the faux-scientific
explanations for the existence of water-babies. Children should not believe in the specific
fantastic circumstances Kingsley has created for Tom (and the readers) to learn moral
lessons, though they should believe in the sense of wonder that can come from the
fantastic elements of the story. Ultimately, then, both Kingsley and Martin have the goal
of advancing moral education through their fantasy. They differ in how they believe that
should be accomplished.
As Jessica Straley argues, Kingsley follows Spencer’s educational ideas (Straley
62-65). Tom’s adventures help him learn according to Spencer’s ideas of gaining
knowledge through applying the scientific method of experimentation. As a water-baby,
Tom is far outside the moralizing influence of society (Straley 68). The fairies he
encounters teach him only by imposing consequences on his incorrect choices. Without
someone else to teach him guiding principles before he makes mistakes, Tom must learn
everything through his own trial and error. For Tom, this turns out much better than it
might have for Edilswag, and he ultimately becomes “a great man of science” “all...from
what he learnt when he was a water-baby underneath the sea” (Kingsley 306, 307).
That Tom’s ultimate triumph is becoming “a great man of science” is another
indication that Kingsley fits into the tradition of education that comes through Spencer,
arguing that moral education and development comes primarily through scientific
experimentation. Straley, however, argues that Kingsley ultimately disagrees with
Spencer on the value of literature for moral education. Kingsley, she writes, “announces
that literature...can provide commensurate occasions for the same self-directed cognitive
progress that [Spencer’s] pedagogy celebrated” (Straley 73). While this is fundamentally
19
different from Spencer’s ideas of the utility of literature, it does not approach the
educational value that Arnold and other romantics ascribe to literature. For Kingsley,
literature has value in that it can imitate scientific inquiry by prompting children to search
for their own answers rather than being overtly didactic. For Arnold, the moralizing
power of literature is in its ability to preserve the great knowledge of the past and thus
satisfy intellectual and imaginative needs, not in the literature’s ability to simulate or
stimulate scientific thinking.
Interestingly, despite many differences, Kingsley and Martin are both deeply
against a certain kind of teaching: cramming children’s heads with random facts. Martin
writes, by way of criticism, that “in many schools the children are well up in a great
variety of scientific and historical and philosophical jargon; but are at the same time very
poor readers, very sad writers, and very sorry arithmeticians” (“Distributing the Prizes”
86). In The Water-Babies, Kingsley parodies this exact same problem with the school
system when Tom visits the Isle of the Tomtoddies. This isle is supposed to be a renamed
version of Swift’s Isle of Laputa, but beyond a quick allusion to Gulliver’s Travels, it
more closely resembles parodies of the Victorian school system, such as Dickens’ Hard
Times (Kingsley 279). On this island, the Tomtoddies ceaselessly try to memorize
random facts, such as the name of “Mutis Scævola’s thirteenth cousin’s grandmother’s
maid’s cat” in order to pass an examination administered by school inspectors (Kingsley
281). Straley reads this as an indictment of the testing regime established by the 1862
Revised Code of Education (Straley 57). Indeed, the specific references to examination
and school inspectors might be a reference to the Revised Code, but it is more probable
that this scene is a parody of the education system as a whole. For example, the austerity
20
and lack of playthings on the Isle of the Tomtoddies is reminiscent of other criticisms of
the education system that significantly predated the Revised Code, such as the description
of Mr. Gradgrind’s home in Hard Times (Dickens 12-13). In any case, both Martin and
Kingsley thoroughly agree that the kind of education parodied by the Isle of the
Tomtoddies is of little worth. Especially telling in Kingsley’s description of the
Tomtoddies is that they are vegetables: “turnips and radishes, beet and mangel-wurzel”
(Kingsley 280). If, as Straley posits, this story is about the recapitulation of human
evolutionary development in the growth and education of children, the Tomtoddies are
some of the lowest creatures, because they are even less like humans than the animals,
fairies, water-babies, and others that inhabit this story. This reveals that, for Kingsley,
this kind of education is even worse than the ignorance and depravity Tom was subject to
as a chimney sweep before becoming a water-baby. At the beginning of the story, he
thinks himself an ape upon seeing his reflection for the first time (Kingsley 28-29). The
imagined ape is much more anthropomorphic than the vegetables of the island of the
Tomtoddies, and thus much closer to full development in a Spencerian sense, revealing
that Kingsley finds ignorance to be a higher state of development than having a head of
useless information. Though Kingsley and Martin agree on this point, they get there
through very different means. Martin does not see evolutionary differences in the
ignorant, the well-educated, and the poorly-educated. He sees education not as a race for
evolutionary supremacy, but as the foundation for morality, which “will be prized by our
Father who is in heaven” (“Distributing the Prizes” 87).
Ultimately, Kingsley and Martin disagree about what a moral education looks like
and where it should lead. This can be seen in the final states of their protagonists. As
21
already mentioned, Tom becomes “a great man of science.” Edilswag, on the other hand,
ends up just as poor and unknown as he was at the beginning of the story. Kingsley, then,
connects morality with socioeconomic advancement, rationalism, and evolutionary
perfection, just as Spencer does.
Moral Education through Fantasy
Martin’s stories construct morality in a very different way. The morality in them
is not as much concerned with the material advancement of the individual or the species.
This vision of morality falls right in line with some of the criticism levelled at the
Romantics for their purveyance of fairy tales. Richardson notes that the romantic
emphasis on imaginative morality through literature and not on economic advancement is
a way for the literate and powerful to keep the newly literate from taking power,
conserving the traditional power structure (Richardson 30-31). At the same time, though,
the theories of evolutionary perfectibility advanced by Spencer eventually hardened into
the dogma of Social Darwinism, which also reinforced class structures by claiming that
the most evolutionarily fit ruled society (“Social Darwinism”). Both philosophies were
used to justify class structures and oppression, meaning that it is not so much the possible
effects of the philosophy that matter as the goal with which the philosophy is used.
Martin sides with the romantics and is clearly concerned with Edilswag’s moral
development from the beginning. He sees this moral development as fundamentally
different from—though not necessarily opposed to—socioeconomic progress. This is
evidenced by the fact that the dwarfs, who have the greatest moral force in the story, have
wealth in abundance, showing that wealth is not inherently bad from Martin’s
perspective. However, Martin also presents Edilswag as living a moral life without
22
making significant gains in wealth, revealing that Martin sees wealth and morality as
independent from one another. From the start, the whole story revolves around
Edilswag’s morality and his relationship with wealth. Martin introduces us to Edilswag
by describing him as “possessing an untainted body and a pure and upright mind” (197).
That he chooses to describe Edilswag in this way reveals his concern for morality. More
interesting to the educational philosophy debate is how Edilswag’s morality is challenged
and changed throughout the story. Near the beginning, Edilswag and his father have a
rational conversation about riches. Their conversation generally follows the model that
Spencer sets forth as a scientific approach to teaching morals. Says Spencer, “by science,
constant appeal is made to individual reason. Its truths are not accepted upon authority
alone; but all are at liberty to test them—nay, in many cases, the pupil is required to think
out his own conclusions. Every step in a scientific investigation is submitted to his
judgment” (Spencer 89). So it goes with the conversation between Edilswag and his
father. The father does not simply tell Edilswag that money is useful and good but
presents rational arguments about how money can be used for good, such as to pay a
doctor to help Edilswag’s sick sister and mother, or to pay for food. In response to
Edilswag’s questions, his father produces more reasoning (198-199). Finally, when an
enchantress shows up in the form of a bird promising money, Edilswag’s father
encourages him to go after it, fitting Spencer and Kingsley’s ideal of experimentation:
Edilswag is given the opportunity to experiment for himself to find out if money is
worthwhile (“Funny Stories” 200). This is a mode of teaching that both Kingsley and
Spencer would endorse. In The Water-Babies, Tom learns almost everything through his
own experiences. The fairies give him formal lessons for only a short time and on a few
23
topics, then they send him out to “see with his own eyes, and smell with his own nose”
(Kingsley 212).
And yet, for Martin, this is nowhere near the best way to teach morality. Edilswag
quickly becomes confused about what is right and wrong when he is on his own. He is
lead straight into the temptation to kill children to get money (“Funny Stories” 204). The
enchantress he has followed produces rational arguments as to why he should kill the
children and why he should listen to her (204). Edilswag “hesitates” but ultimately
decides not to kill the children (204-206). What Martin seems to be doing here is pointing
out a flaw in Spencer’s theory: if Edilswag is expected to learn only from his own
experience, it would be very easy for him to make the wrong choice in this situation,
since he likely has not faced one like it before. If, as Spencer and Kingsley are fond of
arguing, children must learn that fire is dangerous by burning themselves, the only way
for Edilswag to fully know that killing the children is wrong is to kill them and suffer
negative consequences for that action. Spencer might argue that such mistakes are
acceptable because Edilswag will ultimately be able to learn the truth because “nature
[will only justify] his conclusions when they are correctly drawn” (89). But Martin points
out, through the difficult situation Edilswag is placed in, that moral education often has
stakes too high to allow for unregulated experimentation. Interestingly, the way Edilswag
ultimately overcomes this temptation is not by relying on his experiences. He says, “‘I
cannot destroy so much heavenly beauty. They have done me no harm; I will not commit
a murder’” (“Funny Stories” 206). In rejecting Yellow Eye’s offer of riches on condition
of murder, Edilswag cites no empirical evidence or experiential learning that has taught
him that such action would be evil. Instead, he applies the socially loaded term “murder”
24
to justify his refusal. This implies that he has been told what murder is, has absorbed that
definition, and has recognized it in this situation. This is the kind of regulation that
Martin proposes should be placed on children’s opportunities to learn by experience.
Before being turned loose to learn for themselves, children ought to be given a
foundational understanding of morality which teaches them that certain kinds of
experiments (such as murder) are off-limits.
This is further reinforced by the story told by the dragon that Edilswag eventually
meets. It turns out that the dragon was originally a boy just like Edilswag, who was faced
with the same temptation, but failed. Upon attempting to commit murder, however, he
was cursed and transformed into a dragon (“The Old Dragon’s Story” 213-218). This
transformation strikes at the heart of Spencer’s argument. Spencer claimed that it was
rational thinking that first made humans different from other animals and that only
rational thinking would continue that evolutionary trajectory. Here, however, Martin
makes rational (though mistaken) thinking the cause of a person reverting to a bestial
state.
Finally, Edilswag has a very different kind of educational experience at the hands
of the dwarfs at the end of the story. This experience follows what Spencer calls a
classical education in literature, philosophy, and languages, and which he believes is only
ornamental at best and detrimental at worst. Spencer writes that, in this kind of education,
the “dicta are received as unquestionable. [The student’s] attitude of mind is that of
submission to dogmatic teaching” (Spencer 89). Edilswag is told over and over, by his
guide Merlin and by the people they visit, that pursuing money will destroy his life.
Finally, Edilswag shouts, “‘Give me not gold—give me not riches—give me not wealth!
25
Oh! Mighty One, who givest all, give me contentment—give me peace! fill my heart with
love—fill my eyes with tears of sympathy—fill my mind with faith and trust in Thee—
and give me a desire for cheerful industry, so that the labour of my hands may provide
things honest in the sight of men’” (“The Old Dragon’s Story” 227-236). And he does not
depart from this desire for the rest of his life (236). This, Martin thus argues, is the truest
form of moral education. Interestingly, he rejects not just the methods of Spencer’s moral
development, but also the ends. Martin sees morality as something that is not inherent in
an individual (and thus will be properly discovered by individual experimentation) but as
something that must be enforced by society and a proper moral education. Because of
this, he hopes not for a rational morality (like Spencer) but for a principled morality, like
Kay-Shuttleworth and Arnold.
This form of education, which relies on understanding grand principles before
experimenting in specific situations, clearly ties back into Coleridge’s idea of the Vast.
Edilswag gains his moral education by getting first a sense of the vast, by seeing the big
picture of wealth. When left only to the “constant testimony of [his] senses,” he is in
danger of making horribly incorrect choices in the pursuit of wealth. However, once he
has this sense of the vast, which the dwarfs and his magical encounters drive into him, he
has the proper baseline from which to direct his future decisions.
Through his portrayal of Edilswag, Martin clearly articulates his stance on the
power of imagination to drive moral education. This connects well with the educational
policy debates that began during this time period. But, Martin was not just participating
in an educational conversation with his forays into fantasy. He was also part of the front
end of a literary movement that culminated in what some have called the first golden age
26
of children’s literature.
Levy and Mendlesohn write that one of the hallmarks of the movement toward
fantasy that characterized this age of children’s literature was the writers’ collective
desire “to create convincing alternative worlds for a culture in which realism increasingly
required a separation of spiritual and secular realms” (32). Martin’s works in the 1861
edition of Peter Parley’s Annual make important contributions in delineating what he
saw as the realms of fantasy and realism. While Edilswag’s story reveals the value of
fantasy in inculcating moral values, Martin is careful to make sure that the reader
understands that Edilswag’s fantastic adventure takes place in a world other than our
own—it is all a dream.
The Limitations of Fantasy and Rationalism
While Martin sees and defends the important role of fantasy and imagination in
moral education, he also believes that such fantasy must be confined to other worlds, not
released into the tangible, rational world we live in. This is how he reconciles emerging
rationalism with the power of imagination: he divides them. Kingsley attempts to merge
them into an amazing world of rational learning from and among fantastic elements, but
Martin believes this is not how fantasy should work. He makes this clear with another
piece from the same edition of Peter Parley’s Annual. This one is entitled “King Arthur”
and is purported to be an “authentic account of his life, death, burial, and resuscitation”
(“King Arthur” 46). This short historical sketch is the story of King Arthur’s life, with all
the normal fantastic elements and myths removed from it. It is drawn—Martin claims—
from “early British annals” and not from “ridiculous legends” (46). What is the point of
rationalizing this popular story and denigrating the folk tales surrounding it? To illustrate
27
fantasy’s proper place: outside of our world. This story stands in contrast to Edilswag’s
story, marking the limits to fantasy, rather than exploring its merits. That Martin is
concerned with both of these things is revealed in the essay portions of “Curious Things,”
where he explicitly lays out the reasons that fantasy and imagination should not reign in
our world, namely because they cause “bigotry and intolerance” (43). Martin’s “King
Arthur,” then, is meant to establish the truth about King Arthur, to combat any bigotry or
intolerance that might arise from more imaginative accounts. As Martin himself writes,
“It is well for young people to know something authentic about this king, so as not to be
led astray by fable and romance” (51).
Indeed, Martin makes a point of disappointing any expectations of fantastic
elements the story of King Arthur might naturally promise. The subtitle of Martin's “King
Arthur” promises that it will be “an authentic account of his life, death, burial, and
resuscitation” (“King Arthur” 46). The most interesting word in that subtitle is certainly
“resuscitation.” This word seems to promise some kind of miraculous occurrence, such as
King Arthur rising from the grave or a promise that he will do so to save Britain
someday. However, Martin offers none of this in this sketch. Instead, the “resuscitation”
Martin describes is the supposed opening of Arthur's grave during the reign of Richard I
for the purpose of putting his bones on display in a shrine. The message is clear, if
implicit: the rational, scientific, modern world around us may occasionally seem to
promise magic and fantasy, but it will ultimately disappoint. Through this, Martin cleanly
separates the world of fantasy from the world we inhabit. This separation is intended to
keep the problematic moral effects that Martin ascribes to fantasy from entering into our
world while still taking advantage of the moral development that imagination and fantasy
28
can provide.
This idea—that fantasy literature is a purveyor of both moral development and
moral decadence—seems paradoxical, but fits easily in the philosophies that Martin
draws upon. Matthew Arnold viewed literature as creating culture through the power of
imagination (Birch 28-29). Because fantasy places few, if any, limits on imagination, it
follows that fantasy literature would have the greatest power to affect the cultural
understanding, which for Arnold was synonymous with moral education. Interestingly,
this ties back to the ideas of unregulated experimentation mentioned earlier. Martin feels
that the stakes of moral education are too high to allow for unregulated experimentation,
and the same applies to fantasy. Because it carries so much imaginative power, fantasy is
able to lead to both moral enlightenment and moral confusion, depending upon how it is
used. Thus, Martin can both condemn fantasy and use it for moral ends. Perhaps most
interesting about this is that he never overtly praises fantasy or even assigns it a positive
role. In his essay on the place of imagination in children’s literature, the best thing he has
to say about fantasy is that some kinds of it do not have adverse effects (“Curious and
Funny Things” 39-41). It may only be inferred, based on the fairy tales he wrote, what his
views on the positive effects of fairy tales are. Reviewing the fairy tale Martin appends to
this essay reveals that he sees the fairy tale, properly conceived of, as an indispensable
means for promoting moral education.
So, from which—the rational sketch or the fantastic tale—does Martin believe
children will gain the best moral education? From both—as long as they both respect
their limits. And it is those limits he hoped to set out in the essay and stories in “Curious
Things.” For example, in this sketch, Martin shows the difference between rational moral
29
education and imaginative moral education. Martin uses his rationalized sketch of King
Arthur not only to teach historical fact, but also for moral education. For instance, he
notes that Arthur, “was not the first good man that suffered from his goodness, nor will
he be the last” (48). It is instructive to contrast this moral lesson with that drawn from the
tale of Edilswag. The latter establishes a broad moral understanding about the
destructiveness of greed. It has as its object a large principle—one Coleridge would likely
term part of the Vast. The former, on the other hand, focuses on the real-world
consequence of goodness. While its teaching is still a principle which can be applied
broadly, it is a narrower, counter-intuitive, experience-based truth that it teaches.
According to what Martin exemplifies here, it is only together—through what he calls
“the right use of Reason,” accompanied by a broad sense of morality that only
imagination and fantasy can create—that a child can be fully morally educated. It is only
through this kind of interdependence yet separateness of imagination and reason that
Martin believes children can finally acquire “the prizes we should endeavor to win in the
great contention of life” (“Distributing the Prizes” 87).
Conclusion
Ultimately, Martin’s work sheds important light on the connections between the
beginning of the Golden Age of Children’s Literature and the education reforms of late
19th-century England. Martin’s overt discussions of the education system alongside his
wrestlings with both romantic fairy tales and rationalist criticisms of them reveal that for
him, the educational and literary debates were about the same thing. By contributing to
both conversations, Martin provides a unified way of understanding these educational and
literary changes. His place on the front end of the movement towards fantasy makes his
30
work an interesting window into the various factors that caused, modulated, and
enhanced the literary changes. In fact, Martin is an early example of the trend of
separating fantastic events from our rational world, which Levy and Mendlesohn claim
was a feature of many fantasy writers of the age, such as Lewis Carroll. Levy and
Mendlesohn write that this urge toward separation came from the rise of science and
secularism. Martin’s work supports this, but also reveals how this division can also be
connected with changing educational philosophies.
In any case, the fact that Martin is clearly dealing with educational philosophies
as part of his fantasy writing strengthens the idea that writers were proactively
experimenting with fairy tales and fantasy, and not just producing these stories to fill the
empty pages of new magazines, though having empty pages certainly would have created
opportunities for such experiments. Deeper research in the area of children’s periodical
fiction may help uncover a greater understanding of when and how such experimenting
took place. As Janice Schroeder has noted, periodical studies can give a different view of
how these educational trends developed (Schroeder 680). In this case, children’s
periodical fiction could offer a more real-time glance into how debates about education
and fantasy played out. Exploring a broader range of writers and publications will give a
better picture of the details of and relationships between these debates and changes. As
understanding deepens, it will likely become clear that the various theses proposed about
connections between educational reforms and the beginning of the Golden Age of
Children’s Literature do not necessarily contradict each other. Indeed, it seems that a
variety of economic, cultural, philosophical, and political factors perfectly aligned to
produce the literary and educational changes of the late 19th century.
31
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